Whatever temptation is near you, Whose eyes on this simple verse fall, Remember good angels will hear you, And help you, so sure as you call.

Who stunned with despair, I beseech you, Whatever your losses, your need, Believe when these printed words reach you— Believe you were born to succeed.



TOGETHER

We two in the fever, and fervour, and glow Of life's high tide have rejoiced together. We have looked out over the glittering snow, And known we were dwelling in summer weather. For the seasons are made by the heart, I hold, And not by the outdoor heat or cold.

We two in the shadows of pain and fear Have journeyed together in dim, dark places, Where black-robed sorrow walked to and fro, And fear and trouble with phantom faces Peered out upon us, and froze our blood, Though June's fair roses were all in bud.

We two have measured all depths, all heights; We have bathed in tears, we have sunned in laughter; We have known all sorrow, and all delights, They never could keep us apart hereafter. Wherever your spirit was sent I know, I would find my way in the dark, and go.

If they took my soul into Paradise, And told me I must be content without you, I would weary them so with my homesick cries, And the ceaseless questions I asked about you, They would open the gates and set me free, Or else they would find you and bring you to me.



ONE NIGHT

Was it last summer, or ages gone, That damp, dark night in the August dusk, When I waited for you by the gate alone? And the air was heavy with scents like musk. Swiftly and silently shooting down Like the lonesome light of a falling star, I saw through the shadows dense and brown, The dull red light of your fine cigar.

Like a king who taketh his own, you came Through the lowering night and the falling dew. Like one who yields to a rightful claim, I waited there in the dusk for you. Never again when the day grows late, Never again in the years to be, Shall I stand in the dark and dew, and wait, And never again will you come to me.

But always and ever when high and far The old moon hideth her troubled face, I think how the light like a falling star Lit all my world with a new strange grace. The passionate glow of your splendid eyes Shines into my heart as it shone that night, And its slumberous billows surge and rise As the ocean is stirred by the tempest's might.



LOST NATION

Oh! we are a lone, lost nation, We, who sing your songs. With his moods, and his desolation The poet nowhere belongs.

We are not of the people Who labour, believe, and doubt. Like the bell that rings in the steeple, We are in the world, yet out.

In the rustic town, or the city We seek our place in vain; And our hearts are starved for pity, And our souls are sick with pain.

Yes, the people are buying, selling, And the world is one great mart. And woe for the thoughts that are dwelling Up in the poet's heart.

We know what the waves are saying As they roll up from the sea, And the weird old wind is playing Our own sad melody.

We send forth a song to wander Like a spirit of ill or good; And here it is heard, and yonder, But is nowhere understood.

For the world it lives for fashion, For glory, and gain, and strife; And what can it know of the passion And pain of a poet's life?



THE CAPTIVE

My lady is robed for the ball to-night, All in a shimmer and silken sheen. She glides down the stairs like a thing of light, The ballroom's beautiful queen.

Priceless gems on her bosom glow— Half hid by laces a queen might wear. Robed is she, as befits, you know, The wife of a millionaire.

Gliding along at her liege lord's side, Out-shining all in that company, Into the mind of the old man's bride There creeps a curious simile.

She thinks how once in the Long Ago, A beautiful captive, all aflame With jewels that weighed her down like woe, Close in the wake of her captor came.

All day long in that mocking plight, She followed him in a dumb despair; And the people thought her a goodly sight, Decked in her jewels rare.

And now at her lawful master's side, With a pain in her heart, as great as then (So thinks this old man's beautiful bride), Zenobia walks again.



NO SONG

These summer days when all the poets sing I have no voice for song. I see the birds of summer taking wing, And days so sweet and long, Each seemed a little heaven with no end, I know are gone for evermore, dear friend.

Nay, by and by comes another Spring; And long, sweet, perfect days. And by and by I shall have voice to sing My old glad, happy lays. More blithesome songs, more days that have no end; More golden summers; but like thee no friend.



TWO FRIENDS

One day Ambition, in his endless round, All filled with vague and nameless longings, found Slow wasting Genius, who from spot to spot Went idly grazing, through the Realms of Thought.

Ambition cried, 'Come, wander forth with me; I like thy face—but cannot stay with thee.' 'I will,' said Genius, 'for I needs must own I'm getting dull by being much alone.'

'Your hands are cold—come, warm them at my fire,' Ambition said. 'Now, what is thy desire?' Quoth Genius, ''Neath the sod of yonder heather Lie gems untold. Let's plough them out together.'

They bent like strong young oxen to the plough, This done, Ambition questioned, 'Whither now? We'll leave these gems for all the world to see! New sports and pleasures wait for thee and me.'

Said Genius, 'Yonder ghostly ruin stands A blot and blemish on surrounding lands; Let's fling sweet, blooming fancies everywhere.' Soon all the world in wonder came to stare.

'Come, come!' Ambition cried; 'Pray, do be gone From this dull place: I would go further on.' 'There lies,' said Genius, 'up on yonder peak A Prize, alone, I have not cared to seek.'

Up, up they went—as swift, as sure as Time, They seemed to soar: (in truth they did but climb), And there in sight of all the world beneath— Ambition crowned fair Genius with a wreath.

All day they journeyed, swift from place to place; Ambition led, and Genius joined the chase. In every realm of fancy, or of thought, All depths they sounded, and all heights they sought.

Now hand in hand for evermore they stray, And if they part, or quarrel for a day, You'll find Ambition, aimless, reckless, wild, And Genius moping, like an idle child.



I DIDN'T THINK

If all the troubles in the world Were traced back to their start, We'd find not one in ten begun From want of willing heart. But there's a sly, woe-working elf Who lurks about youth's brink, And sure dismay he brings alway— The elf, 'I didn't think.'

He seems so sorry when he's caught; His mien is all contrite; He so regrets the woe he wrought, And wants to make things right. But wishes do not heal a wound Or weld a broken link; The heart aches on, the link is gone, All through—'I didn't think.'

I half believe that ugly sprite, Bold, wicked, 'I don't care,' In life's long run less harm has done Because he is so rare; And one can be so stern with him, Can make the monster shrink; But, lack a day, what can we say To whining 'Didn't think'?

This most unpleasant imp of strife Pursues us everywhere. There's scarcely one whole day of life He does not cause us care; Small woes and great he brings the world, Strong ships are forced to sink, And trains from iron track are hurled, alack, By stupid 'Didn't think.'

When brain is comrade to the heart, And heart from soul draws grace, 'I didn't think will quick depart For lack of resting-place. If from that great, unselfish stream, The Golden Rule we drink, We'll keep God's laws, and have no cause To say 'I didn't think.'



A BURIAL

To-day I had a burial of my dead. There was no shroud, no coffin, and no pall, No prayers were uttered and no tears were shed— I only turned a picture to the wall.

A picture that had hung within my room For years and years; a relic of my youth. It kept the rose of love in constant bloom To see those eyes of earnestness and truth.

At hours wherein no other dared intrude, I had drawn comfort from its smiling grace. Silent companion of my solitude, My soul held sweet communion with that face.

I lived again the dream so bright, so brief, Though wakened as we all are by some Fate; This picture gave me infinite relief, And did not leave me wholly desolate.

To-day I saw an item, quite by chance, That robbed me of my pitiful poor dole: A marriage notice fell beneath my glance, And I became a lonely widowed soul.

With drooping eyes, and cheeks a burning flame, I turned the picture to the blank wall's gloom. My very heart had died in me of shame, If I had left it smiling in my room.

Another woman's husband. So, my friend, My comfort, my sole relic of the past, I bury thee, and, lonely, seek the end. Swift age has swept my youth from me at last.



THEIR FACES

O Beautiful white Angels! who control The inner workings of each poet soul, Thou who hast touched my mind with tender graces Come near to me that I may see thy faces.

Me, didst thou bless before I came to earth; Me, hast thou kissed, and dowered at my birth, With such a wealth of sweet imaginings, That, even in sleep, my dreaming fancy sings.

Sometimes when seeing snow-white clouds at noon, Or watching silver shadows from the moon, Within my soul has stirred a joy like fear, As if some kindred spirit lingered near.

Come closer, Angels! thou whose haloed wings Do gild for me the meanest ways and things, With beauty borrowed from the Infinite— Stand forth, let me behold thee in the light.

O thought supreme! O death! O life! unknown I shall not solve thy mystery alone. The angels who have kissed me at my birth Shall take again my soul when done with earth, And as we soar through vast, star-lighted spaces, At last, at last I shall behold their faces.



THE LULLABY

When the long day leans to the twilight, When the Evening star climbs to the moon, With a heart that is silently breaking, I sit in the gloaming and croon. I croon a low song for my darling, My wee one, my baby, my own; Who, cradled in rosewood and velvet, Sleeps out in the churchyard alone.

Alone with no arms to enfold her, Alone with no pillowing breast, Alone with no hand on her cradle, To rock her to soundlier rest. But each day in the hush of the twilight, Is silenced my broken heart's cry; And I sit where I sat with my darling, And sing her the old lullaby.

Oh! the dreams that come back to me mocking, The sorrow that makes the days long; As I sit in the twilight there rocking, And singing that lullaby song. But I think my wee darling rests better As the night shadows lengthen, and creep Across her low bed, in the churchyard, If her mother's voice sings her to sleep. And so with a heart that is breaking I sing the old 'Lullaby dear' That hushed her so oft into slumber— O baby—my own—do you hear?



MIRAGE

When the beautiful mountain ash is turning— As lovely a sight as the eyes desire; When the leaves of the sumac bush are burning, Like the steady flame of a winter fire; When the weeds by the roadside all grow golden, When maples are glowing and asters gleam, It is then that the new is changed to the olden, And back to my heart comes the past like a dream.

Like a mirage I see the blue haze o'er me, The City of Youth that I left behind. Oh! whitely its turrets are gleaming before me, And out of the window lean faces kind. And I hear the echo of jubilant voices; There are cheeks of beauty and eyes of truth: And every pulse in my heart rejoices— There's no other place like the City of Youth.

And lo! the City is full of splendour, And a voice in my soul breaks into song. Yes, a passionate love, as fair as tender, Creeps out of the grave where it slept so long. As the strings of a harp by winds are shaken, To endless music my heart is stirred, When my name is breathed and my hand is taken, Though I cannot utter a single word.

But with souls that are full of the beautiful weather, And the perfect peace that has no name, Under the autumn skies together We stray, by the sumacs all aflame. And the forest flushes to fuller glory: Brighter glow asters and golden rod, As eye unto eye tells the old, old story, And the sunlight seems like the smile of God.

Alone I stand and sorrowful hearted; The dead leaves fall in the chilly wind. The mirage is fled, and the glory departed, And the City of Youth is far behind.



ALONE IN THE HOUSE

I am all alone in the house to-night; They would not have gone away Had they known of the terrible, bloodless fight I have held with my heart to-day. With the old sweet love and the old fierce pain I have battled hour by hour; But the fates have willed that the strife is vain. Alone in the hour my thoughts have reign, And I yield myself to their power.

Yield myself to the old time charm Of a dream of vanished bliss, The thrill of a voice, and the fold of an arm, And a red lip's lingering kiss. It all comes back like a flowing tide; That brief, but beautiful day. Though it oft is checked by the dam of pride, Till the waters flow back to the other side, To-night it has broken away.

I gave you all that I had to give, O love, the lavish whole. And you threw it away, and now I live A starved and beggared soul. And I feed on crumbs that memory throws From her table over-filled, And I lay awake when others repose, And slake my thirst when no one knows, With the wine that she has spilled.

I go my way and I do my part In the world's great scene of strife, But I do it all with an empty heart, Dead to the best of life. And ofttimes weary and tempest tossed, When I am not ruled by pride, I wish ere the die was throne and lost, Ere I played for love without counting the cost, That I, like my heart, had died.



AN OLD BOUQUET

I opened a long closed drawer to-day, And among the souvenirs stored away Were the faded leaves of an old bouquet.

Those faded leaves were as white as snow, With a background of green, to make them show, When you gave them to me long years ago.

They carried me back in a flash of light To a perfumed, perfect summer night, And a rider who came on a steed of white.

I can see it all—how you rode down Like a knight of old, from the dusty town, With a passionate glow in your eyes of brown.

Again I stand by the garden gate, While the golden sun slips low, and wait And watch your coming, my love, my fate.

Young and handsome and debonair You leap to my side in the garden there, And I take your flowers, and call them fair.

Out of the west the glory dies, As we stand under the sunset skies, With love in our hearts, and love in our eyes.

Love too tender and love too great To die with death, or to yield to fate; But your restless steed tells the hour is late.

You mount him again and you ride away Into the west that is growing gray. Oh! turn the key on that dear bouquet.

It is dry and faded and I am old: And the hand that gave it is green with mould, And the winter of life is cold—so cold.



AT THE BRIDAL

Oh! but the bride was lovely, Oh! but the scene was bright, And why was the bridegroom's face as pale As his lady's robe of white?

Did you not see beside him A guest unasked, unbid? Who came up the aisle with silent feet And gazed at him? he did!

He saw her eyes upon him, He felt her icy breath; And under the bride's warm clinging hand There crept the touch of death.

And above the low responses There fell upon his ear A voice forbidding the nuptial banns; But no one else could hear.

And when the ring was given, And when the prayer was said, He knew, as he led his bride away, That he was not truly wed.

And while they sat at the banquet, And mirth flowed like the wine, A dead girl's voice hissed in his ear, 'You are not hers, but mine.'

Oh! never beside his hearthstone, And never in any place, Shall he be free from the haunting thought Of that accusing face.



BEST

In the gruesome night and the wintry weather, I watched two dear friends die, And I buried them both in one grave together. Oh! who is so sad as I? For the old love, and the old year, They both have passed away; And I never can find the old cheer Come what will or may.

I heard the bell in the tall church steeple Clang out a joyful strain. And I thought, 'Of all the great world's people, I have the bitterest pain.' For the old year was a good year, And the old love was sweet; And how could my heart hold any cheer When both lay dead at my feet.

Life may smile and the skies may brighten, Winter will pass with its snows; Grief will wane and the burden lighten— And June will come with the rose. But it cannot bring the old cheer To fill my empty breast; For the old year was the one year, And the old love was best.

THE END